***In the interest of time, I will be posting this story without editing it first. Please bare with any temporary typos or grammatical errors. Thank you.***

Molly sat in 221B, shaking from head to toe. She just couldn't stop seeing it in her head: all those images of John, of Mary - and of her. Her name circled in some newspaper article like the victim of a hit! Is that was she was? A target? Is that all she had ever been to Tom? Just another pawn in some sicko's game?

She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she barely registered the two men behind her, speaking in the kitchen.

Lestrade had taken photos of the crime scene, and was now showing them to Sherlock.

"Again. Go over it again."

Greg sighed, lowering his voice as best he could.

"We entered the house with Molly's key. No signs of forced entry on the doors or windows. Inside looked clear with no signs of a struggle. The only thing that seemed off was the food on the table. I told Molly to wait and that's when I went upstairs and saw all this."

"And it was all laid out? Just like this?"

"I didn't touch a thing before taking those photos. It must have been planted there before we got there, but why?"

These words finally stirred Molly enough to speak from the chair.

"No. It wasn't planted."

Greg raised his voice, walking over to where he was seated.

"Molly, dear, why don't you go home. I'll have an officer -"

"No!"

She stood just as abruptly as she spoke. Her heart pounded madly in her chest as she addressed the two men.

"No, I want the truth. I want to know exactly what's going on."

With pleading eyes, she looked at Sherlock.

"It wasn't planted there, was it?"

The consulting detective sighed, but didn't break her eye contact.

"No. It wasn't. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say he died only moments before you got there."

Molly was now fighting back tears, a flood of mixed emotions threatening to make them bubble over onto her cheeks. She remained as steadfast as she could, eyes still locked on Sherlock's.

"You need to explain. You need to tell me what all this means. And quickly."

"Then, maybe you should sit -"

"No!"

With another sigh, Sherlock started to speak in his usual quick and calculated way. Normally, this had brought great comfort to Molly; something she could always rely on at the conclusion of a case. But not today. Today, it only brought more heartache.

"Before I faked my death, Moriarty had kidnapped two children using someone who looked enough like me to scare the girl when she first saw me. Part of his plan to discredit me. I believe that Tom was that person."

Greg's eyebrows creased.

"Hang on, but you told Anderson they bumped that guy off! And that you used his body as a plant, or something, when you faked your death."

"Do you really think I would have told the truth to Anderson?"

"No. Unless, of course, you knew he wouldn't believe the truth, even if you told it to him."

Molly now practically screamed with frustration, causing two tears to fall onto her cheek.

"Please! Both of you! Sherlock, what are you saying?"

"Molly, I'm saying that Tom was a hit man. Sent to keep an eye on John after I died. And he locked onto you because you were an easy target and a way to stay close to him."

"Sherlock! You can't just say things like that to -"

"No. No, he's right. I was an easy target. A very easy target. God, I'm such a fool!"

She collapsed into a kitchen chair, tears now flowing steadily down her face. Sherlock knelt down next to his friend, trying to lend what little comfort he could.

"You are not a fool, Molly Hooper. You were taken in by a con-artist. Someone whose very life depended on lying."

"Twice! First by Jim, then by Tom! Because I'm weak and silly and easy -"

"No, Dr Hooper, because you are strong."

These words made her look up, Sherlock's face now only inches from hers.

"Molly, anyone can con a weak person. It's too easy to the point of fault; making it easier to slip out of the lie and back into truth. True con-artists don't target the weak, they target strength. And the fact that Tom was able to get away with it for so long is testament to exactly how strong a person you are."

Molly stared for a moment as she tried to process his words. Finally, she sniffed and gave a wet chuckle.

"That has to be the weirdest compliment I've ever been given."

Sherlock smiled and straightened, patting her on the shoulder.

"It's the truth. Now, I agree with Lestrade: it's best if you go home, get some rest. I'll send Mrs Hudson with you, just to make sure you're alright."

She nodded, standing.

"Thank you. Both of you. Truly."

Both men nodded as Molly made her way to the stairs and out of the flat.

Once he was sure Molly was out of earshot, Greg turned to Sherlock.

"So, Tom was a hitman? But he never actually went after John, only observed him. Why? What does it mean?"

Sherlock had begun to scroll through the images once again, watching his best friend's progression since his fateful jump from the roof of St Bart's to the present day. He stopped on the photos of John, Mary, and the baby leaving the hospital just one month before.

"It means that none of them are safe. No matter what I do, no matter what I don't do - No one is ever truly safe."

"Well, while you're dwelling on the existential aftermath of that statement, there's one thing last thing I wanted to show you. I was just waiting until she'd gone."

Lestrade handed Sherlock the photograph of Molly which had since been wrapped in an evidence bag. Turning it over, the consulting detective, saw a single word, scrolled on the back in bright red: consequences. Sherlock took a deep breath, instantly making the connection with that case which ended the day baby Watson had been born.

"It looks just like the one from the tea-party killer's murder, doesn't it? But, there's nothing else connecting the two -"

"May I keep this?"

"Keep - the photograph? No, Sherlock, it's evidence, you can't just…"

But the look of unyielding determination on Sherlock's face made him understand that it hadn't really been a question.

"Fine. But, if anyone asks, you didn't get it from me. Now, I have to get going. I promised John and Mary I'd pop in a little later. Call me if you make any sense of this, alright?"

"Of course, Lestrade. The very moment I do."

"Yeah. Sure you will."

With the smallest smirk, Lestrade winked and headed down the stairs.

Finally alone, Sherlock moved to the hallway door, closing it to reveal the only free bit of wall space in the entire room. The rest of the parlour had been transformed, only a few months prior, to a web of red string and Internet clippings all center around one simple phrase: did you miss me?

Now, however, it was time to start a new web of clues. Sherlock took a thumbtack from a drawer, before looking at the image of Molly for a good long moment. Finally, he faced the image to the wall, tacking the evidence bag so that only the glimmering, threatening red letters shown back at him.